


Boots

by underThatRug



Category: Les Amis - Fandom, Les Misérables - All Media Types, les mis
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, One Shot, Other, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underThatRug/pseuds/underThatRug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse was another story.<br/>He didn’t fall for someone because of their wit or eyes, but rather… his boots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Monica!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Monica%21).



They say you always remember something special about your soulmate.

Maybe it was their eyes, their smile, or the little wrinkle that would appear in their nose when they would laugh. For Enjolras, it was the way Grantaire would smile at every little thing. He would always cheer up the leader; make him laugh even in the darkest of times. For Bossuet, it was the look Joly would get when they were watching the news. His eyes would widen, his fingers would begin to fidget wildly, and soon enough, he’d run into the bathroom to check his tongue for the newest deadly disease the co-anchor had mentioned. For Bahorel, it was Feuilly’s freckles. He would tease the boy relentlessly, joking how one day he was going to count all of them. Feuilly just laughed, and Bahorel loved it when he laughed. 

Montparnasse was another story. He didn’t fall for someone because of their wit or eyes, but rather… his boots. 

 

 

It was a Tuesday night. Jehan was nervously tapping his foot, the heel bouncing up and down, up and down… The movement forced his entire leg to bounce, up and down, up and down… In the boy’s hands was a piece of paper, scribbled writing filling the front and back. His long, dirty blonde hair was braided to the side, partly withered flowers peppering along the curls. He was clad in a plan white t shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It hung off him a bit loosely, considering how lanky he was. Over the shirt was a vest with a pale, floral pattern. As if the boy didn’t think he had enough flowers in his hair.   
He was nervous, sure. He was also excited, terrified, anxious, and angry. Jehan was a boiling pot, overflowing with steam and rage. Whenever the boy was sitting in this particular seat, it was as if the world finally started to spin. He had a chance to let his voice be heard, and he intended for it to be loud. Jehan was a peaceful boy, always the one to comfort his friends and make them soup when they were sad. None of them had ever seen him read poetry, besides Combeferre, who would come occasionally for moral support. It may have been his imagination, but Jehan would swear on his grave that he heard Combeferre snap the loudest. Tonight, his friend wasn’t there. That didn’t make Jehan any less exhilarated, though. He was still a raging flower, ready to drop his petals on anyone who was willing to listen… and maybe on those who weren’t. 

It was a Tuesday night. Montparnasse was sitting completely still, unexcited, and about to fall asleep. He was here on a whim, having been walking through the streets of Paris with nothing to do. He came across the small bar by mistake, taking a wrong turn when he was trying to find a nice place to sit and get high. Now, as he listened to poem after poem… lyric after lyric… meaningless speech after useless drabble… He began to doze off. 

Jehan was wide awake. When it was his turn to take the stage, the boy took a deep breath and stood up. After clearing his mind, washing away all emotions and forcing himself to think about only his poem, he stepped onto the stage. 

 

Now, they say you always remember something special about your soulmate. For Montparnasse, it was undoubtedly, and most certainly Jehan’s boots.

 

Jehan stood center stage, his steady hands holding the already memorized poem in front of him. He was practically rooted to the ground, his toes wriggling inside his scuffed combat boots. The loose threads of his ripped jeans tickled his knees.   
He began his poem.

Montparnasse was confused. Here, in front of him, was this tiny ball of fury. Not only did the boy have the damned flowers in his hair, but he had the flowers on his vest. He looked like a fucking hippy, a hippy wearing combat boots. A hippy… that was so angry and adorable all at once. Was that even possible?

Jehan said the last words of his poem softly, exhaling a gentle breath afterwards. He silently thanked the audience as they snapped, making his way off the stage. 

Montparnasse followed the boy with his eyes, them being slightly narrowed. He needed to know who he was, what he liked to do… He needed to know everything about him. Montparnasse had one thing on his mind.

Jehan had one thing on his mind, and that was to get some fresh air. Right now. 

Wait, he was leaving. Montparnasse stood up from his bar stool, edging through the crowd of poets, making his way to the back of the bar. A strand of black hair fell into his eyes, and he quickly moved it back to where the rest of his hair was. His hair was promptly tousled back, hair gel keeping its place in a gentle style. The boy tugged on his leather jacket and pulled up his hood as he exited the bar, heading out into the night. It took him barely a second to find who he was looking for, considering he ran straight into him. 

Jehan twisted his finger around the end of his braid, taking deep breaths. It was calming outside, peaceful. Inside was angry, hot, and Jehan could only handle that for so long. He shivered at the cold Paris air, his arms crossed. The boy plucked a flower from his hair, sniffing it and frowning. Jehan’s eyes peered down at the small and delicate thing in his hand, a small sigh escaping his lips at the sight of it. It was withering, blackening, yellowing, and dying. It was a sad sight, making the poet’s heart hurt. It was settled then.   
It was time to pick new flowers. The boy nodded to himself, his lips tugging up into the beginning of a grin.

Jehan turned on his heel, smacking right into something hard. He immediately stepped back, raising a hand to his forehead and grimacing, his grin only growing. 

“I’m so sorry about that, are you alright?” A giggle escaped Jehan’s lips. He removed his fingers from the dull throb on his forehead, the slender things falling down to his side. 

“Fine, yea, fine... Fine. Fine, completely fine.” 

Jehan raised his eyebrows, continuing to giggle at the strange boy. He looked aloof, lost, and a bit confused. “You sure you’re fine? I don’t think you’ve said it enough.” 

The boy opposite Jehan looked up, lifting his gaze from the floor. His forehead hurt, but it was hardly a dizzying feeling. He was fine. 

“I’m Jehan.” He offered his hand.

The boy wearing the hood looked at it, then reached out his own hand and shook it. Jehan’s hands were soft.

“Montparnasse,” the boy replied, giving a nod of his head. 

Jehan let his dazzling green eyes fall onto Montparnasse’s ice blue ones. Safe to say, he couldn’t look away.

“Monty, I know this is sudden, and strange, but… Could I take you out for a drink? Something… to apologize for rudely knocking into you?” Jehan asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He smile never left his face. There was a certain twinkle in his eyes, a lovely sparkle that just lit up his entire face.

 

Monty may have been imagining things, but he could’ve sworn that Jehan’s boots weren’t the only thing he noticed.


End file.
